


whatever we do here, it has the vibe

by dopaminekeeper



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - 365 FRESH, Clubbing, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Threesome - M/M/M, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dopaminekeeper/pseuds/dopaminekeeper
Summary: a criminal, a hairdresser, and a man on the edge get into a stolen car at the end of the world
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Lee Seoho
Comments: 23
Kudos: 65





	whatever we do here, it has the vibe

**Author's Note:**

> [BANGS FISTS ON TABLE] HYUNG-LINE 365 FRESH AU?????? HYUNG-LINE 365 FRESH AU!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> this was so much fun to write, i had an absolute blast
> 
> check out the original video   
> [here](https://youtu.be/8gPQenyj1nI) if you somehow havent seen it

It ends like this:

Geonhak and Seoho and Youngjo, hands gripped tight, sirens in their ears and lights in their eyes, teetering on the edge of a bridge in someone else’s shoes.

_ I know something you don’t know. _

It’s nowhere Geonhak hasn’t been before. Seoho always dreamed of flying. Youngjo has endless faith.

The only way out…

...is up, then down.

  
  


It starts like this:

Seoho never liked running in school. He found it boring and exhausting and tiresome, going around a track like a hamster on a wheel, on and on, no destination and no motivation. Enough to make any sane person go crazy.

Now, streets ahead and streets behind, Seoho can say that he understands the joys of a good run. He just needed that fire under his ass — a debt, a bad deal, a fight he’s never going to win, and he’s off like a rocket through the warren of side streets that make up the city’s underbelly. Faster, faster, until his heart pounds and his lungs burn and he’s laughing because there’s only one way this ends — with a bang and a whimper, both his.

He takes the first punch with a grin, the second with a grimace, and the third with a groan. Crumpled on the ground, oozing blood and giggling, he thinks that maybe he should have taken his physical education more seriously back in school.

Patched up as best he can with a convenience store first aid kit, Seoho manages to talk his way into a club despite looking like he just dragged himself out of hell. Palming some girl’s car keys is easy with a little misdirection — one of the first grifts he learned.

And then he’s out, behind the wheel and nowhere to go. He’s sure he’ll find a destination soon enough — he always does.

Youngjo knows he’s pretty. Pretty eyes, pretty nose, pretty lips, pretty everything. And he likes making other people pretty, too, knows how to bring it out of them with a kind smile and quiet words. Quick hands to paint a lip red or brush carmine dye onto hair with a deft expertise that keeps his customers coming back. He never stains a client’s skin. He takes pride in his work, and he doesn’t make an exception for the guy that walks in just as he’s about to close. He seems polite enough, Youngjo thinks, drawing a cape around the man’s shoulders.

Ten minutes later and Youngjo’s desperate on the floor. This is a different kind of stain entirely. This is a stain he can’t wash out, all over the floor, all over his hands, his body, his clothes, red all over and what is he going to  _ do. _

He stumbles outside, shivering in just his tanktop since he left his blood soaked shirt behind. Into the parking garage — maybe if he can get to his car fast enough, if he can drive somewhere no one knows his name or why his hands tremble, he won’t get caught —

The events that lead him to the passenger seat of Seoho’s stolen car are blurry and vague. Maybe there’s a psychic kinship in running from something you can’t escape. Maybe they’re both just damned.

Frankly, Youngjo doesn’t care, as long as they drive away, away,  _ away. _

Geonhak thinks twenty-three years on this fucking planet is enough for him. He's had enough.

He might have been gone at twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two if he weren't such a coward about it. Every birthday he thinks about it, climbs up to the bridge and looks down and then goes home and smokes a blunt and rags on his punching bag until his knuckles bleed and he can't think about anything anymore.

Sitting around his apartment is kind of a death of its own, he thinks, unpaid bills piling up alongside empty takeout containers and unanswered voicemails. He's overdue on rent by two months at least, and every day could be the day he's kicked out of the shitty complex for good.

Tonight is no different from any other night. The air tastes stale and rank enough to drive him outside, wandering with nowhere to go in particular. The streets are empty as a graveyard, nothing to take him out of his haze.

He doesn't make a conscious decision to stumble out in front of the car — one moment he sees headlights and the next moment he's sprawled on the pavement with pain in his ribs and blood on his teeth. He grimaces a laugh — pain is good, pain is  _ wonderful,  _ it sparks in his veins and makes him feel alive in a way nothing else does.

The guy in the car gets out and punches him in the face and,  _ fuck, yes.  _ Geonhak laughs some more, unable to stop — he offered his body up to the universe a while ago, and if this is what the universe wants to do with it, he's just gonna let it happen. Some other pretty boy tries to drag punchy guy off, but it doesn't work. Punchy guy goes at it again, a mean left hook that has him seeing stars.

Pretty boy finally does succeed in dragging the guy off Geonhak, offering a hand to pull him off. Geonhak doesn't miss that pretty boy's hands have the remnants of blood under his fingernails, the detail cutting through his brain fog. Pretty hands. Pretty everything, he thinks, stuttering over words as the guy wipes blood off his lip, eyebrows knit together.

He doesn't learn their names until he's in the backseat of the car, speeding off into parts unknown.

They drive through the night, Seoho's eyes fixed on the middle distance. Youngjo doesn't dare ask where they're going. Geonhak doesn't care.

With the dawn comes an empty gas tank and Youngjo's quiet request that they stop for food. The gas station is so remote that Seoho doubts they even have a working TV, so no news reports that could give them away. He pulls in with a slight screech, still getting used to the touchy brakes on this car.

"You got money?" he asks Youngjo. He nods, heading into the attached convenience store for food and coffee. Seoho's gaze follows him, doesn't miss the way the clerk's eyes follow him the moment he enters the store. He checks quickly to make sure Geonhak's not dead in the back (he isn't, just dead-eyed and half-asleep) and hops out to fill the tank.

Youngjo returns with three coffees in a flimsy cardboard tray and some shitty pre-packaged pastries in a bag just as Seoho pops the trunk. He doesn't drop the coffee, but it's close thing. Instead, he puts the tray on the roof of the car and bangs on the back window.

"Geonhak," he calls, quietly — Seoho's starting to think he's incapable of yelling properly. "Geonhak, come out here."

"Fuck, what?" Geonhak grumbles. He exits the car looking like death warmed over and comes to stand beside the two of them.

Silence hangs heavy in the early morning air.

"Oh." Geonhak's eyes are wider and more alert than the other two have yet seen them. "Well, shit."

"Yeah," Seoho agrees.  _ "Shit." _

They drive far enough that Youngjo starts breathing easier and Seoho no longer feels like a caged animal and Geonhak stares out the window in wonder at scenery he’s never seen before. Then they drive some more.

They stop at gas stations and rest areas and weird little roadside attractions more and more frequently as they get further away from their origin point and closer to their… destination? Destiny? It doesn’t matter, as long as they leave dust in their wake.

Youngjo laughs as he puts a series of ridiculous novelty hats on Geonhak’s head at an out-of-the-way museum along the highway. If Seoho didn’t know better, he’d think that Youngjo was too pretty and soft to be out here with people like them, a flower in the desert yearning for rain, except that Seoho has seen him cleaning the blood off his hands. Saw the flint in his pretty eyes.

Seoho might be distracted keeping one eye on the exit at all times — an instinct he developed fast and early — but he’d have to be blind  _ and _ stupid to miss the way Geonhak bends in Youngjo’s direction like he’s the only thing tethering Geonhak to this world. Something sharp makes itself known in Seoho’s chest — jealousy? Irritation?

Youngjo turns to look at him, quirks those pretty, pretty lips. Geonhak, cowboy hat still crooked on his head, follows like a puppy, handsome even with dark circles under his eyes.

_ Greed, _ Seoho thinks. That’s a feeling he’s very familiar with, spark to flame to ash. Greed never ends well for him, but god, will he enjoy it while he has it in his grasp.

Youngjo dyes his hair black in their shitty motel mirror, lips pursed and concentration lining his face. Geonhak watches him from the bathtub where his own bleach job is settling in, turning his dirty brown locks lemon-yellow. Seoho can’t help but smirk remembering the way Geonhak’s eyes had closed at the feeling of Youngjo’s fingers against his scalp — had he even been aware of how obvious he looked?

Youngjo doesn’t seem to mind, though, humming along with the radio as his hair goes from chocolate to the color of dark ink. Seoho concentrates on counting the stacks of bills they have, stashing it in various duffels and items of clothing that they’ve picked up along the way.

“I got some for you, too,” Youngjo calls as he washes the bleach out of Geonhak’s hair. “If you want it.”

Seoho likes his hair just the way it is, thank you, but he’d be an idiot to pass up the extra layer of safety that comes with the disguise. Sighing heavily, he strips his shirt off and allows Youngjo to sit him down on the edge of the tub. He balks when he sees the box Youngjo pulls out.

“Absolutely not —”

“Come on, it’ll look really nice on you,” Youngjo wheedles, shaking the box of orange-red dye. “Redheads are sexy.”

“No! Don’t you have any more black?”

“This is what I got, take it or leave it.” He pouts those pretty lips and Seoho feels his resolve crack slightly.

“Just let him do it,” Geonhak calls from the other room. “He’s good at it.”

Seoho groans and crosses his arms, resigning himself to his fate. Youngjo gives him a pleased smile that shatters his heart the rest of the way open.

He can’t deny that it feels nice to have Youngjo’s hands on him, warm on his scalp even through the cheap plastic gloves. The dye is cold and sticky but Youngjo’s soft humming keeps him warm. He cracks his eyes open to catch Geonhak watching them through the open door, his gaze trailing over Seoho’s bare torso before snapping to his face. Geonhak’s ears redden at being caught, but Seoho just smirks.

Someone’s lit a fuse, the little flame taking in fibers and oxygen greedily, and it’s winding its way towards the three of them.

“Let’s find a party,” Seoho says later, combing through his new auburn hair, oddly pleased with the color. “I think we deserve it.”

One shot, two shots, and they quickly discover that Geonhak can’t hold his liquor  _ at all.  _ He requires both of them to hold him up, red-faced and giggling and limbs everywhere. Youngjo’s laughing, too, faring a little better despite also being a lightweight — at least he seems to know his own limits. Seoho’s easily caught up in it, swept under a like a riptide, exhilarating and dangerous.

They’re dancing close, Geonhak pressed between them, the pretense of holding him up fading quickly under the deep red lights that sweep the floor. So many anonymous faces, sweat and skin and life, and they’re just three more — no past, no future, nothing but hot blood and adrenaline.

This close, Seoho can feel Geonhak’s muscled chest against his own, the jut of his hipbones under Seoho’s hands as Seoho pulls him even closer, dancing dirty just because he  _ can. _ Over the bass thudding like a heartbeat, he can just barely hear the little noise Geonhak makes as Seoho’s thigh presses up between his.

His skin sparks electric when Youngjo’s hand lands on Seoho’s waist, squeezing the three of them even tighter — a closed circuit, a shared secret, three near-strangers dancing like they have nothing to lose.

They dance until the party’s over and their feet ache.

They stop at a drive-in movie theater, sitting on the roof of the car and bickering over snacks. After the movie ends, fireworks begin to split open the night sky.

“What’re we celebrating?” Geonhak asks, hugging his knees to his chest, eyes wide and reflecting hues of green and blue and red. Youngjo hangs off his back like a cat seeking out the nearest source of heat.

“Dunno,” Seoho replies. “I’m not sure what day it is.”

Seoho goes out for cigarettes and comes back to a strangely quiet motel suite. He assumes the other two are asleep and collapses on the shitty couch, the door to the bedroom slightly ajar. He lights up, exhaling a long plume of smoke into the already-stale air when he hears a creak, a low murmur.

It’s not that hard to figure it out. Seoho’s fucked before, he knows what it sounds like.

He doesn’t know what  _ they _ sound like, though, and so he stands as quietly as he can and stands near the open door. They’d see him, if they were to turn around and look, but he doesn’t care — what does it matter if he’s caught looking?

A groan — Geonhak’s, he’s sure, by the low, rough tone. Youngjo coos, says something soothing and gentle that nonetheless makes Geonhak shake the bed with the force of his squirming.

Seoho wants desperately to flip on the lights, to see exactly what it is that Youngjo’s doing to Geonhak that’s making him lose his mind like that, but it’s not the right time.

Instead, he slinks away, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table and heading into the bathroom to jerk off.

They drive and drive and drive. Youngjo thinks they must have reached the end of the world by now, but the road just stretches on. The landscape shifts with the days but never seems to change.

Seoho always drives, no matter what. Youngjo offers (Geonhak can’t drive), but Seoho refuses each time, even when he’s clearly exhausted and there hasn’t been any sign of civilization for twenty miles.

It’s on one of these infinite days that Geonhak finally asks the question that none of them have been willing to voice:

“Where are we going?”

Seoho remains silent, but Youngjo can see the way his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Youngjo shoots a placating look at Geonhak in the backseat, but he’s not sure he’s been able to keep all the worry off his own face.

“Why?” Seoho bites out.

“I just —” Geonhak starts, but Seoho cuts him off.

“We’ll know when we get there.”

Geonhak’s eyes flare with irritation like he’s about to start arguing, but Youngjo shakes his head and mouths,  _ please. _ Geonhak shuts his mouth, arms crossed tightly across his chest. He glares out the window instead, at the endless trees shooting by.

Youngjo puts his hand on Seoho’s shoulder — tentative, like he’s approaching the tangle of wires in a ticking bomb.

“We can’t keep going forever,” he says, gently. Seoho won’t look at him, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

They keep driving.

Geonhak finds clubs overwhelming — the lights and pounding music and press of a hundred bodies make his head swim. He almost never went before, much preferring weed and the fuzzy company of his own brain.

He still finds them overwhelming, but with the other two as his anchors, the experience goes from a bad trip to a sublime high.

Youngjo’s dancing with him, pressed so close that Geonhak can’t breathe. Youngjo makes him feel clumsy by comparison, elegant where Geonhak is bulky, but their bodies  _ fit —  _ Youngjo’s arms around his neck, hands in his bleach-fried hair, thigh between Geonhak’s legs and hips shifting to the thrum of the bass that rattles his bones.

Like this, Geonhak feels unstoppable. He could do anything, take on the world and win, jump off a bridge and fly instead of fall. He wants Youngjo to fuck him right there on the dancefloor, wants to get in the car and go a hundred-fifty down the highway until they crash and burn.

He wants— 

A prickling on the back of his neck, and he turns just enough to see Seoho at the bar, just… watching. Geonhak feels his ears go red but he doesn’t turn away. He looks back, fingers tightening on Youngjo’s waist.  _ Look at us. Don’t you want us? _

Seoho’s eyes are hungry. It makes Geonhak shiver, the promise in them.

The song shifts to something slower, something lower. Seoho turns away and orders another drink.

Geonhak crawls into his bed the next night, with the moon shining past the grimy curtains. Seoho can hear his breath over the roar of the window-unit air conditioner. Strong arms wrap around Seoho’s waist, a cold nose nuzzling against his collarbone. Fine hair brushes under his chin.

Seoho thinks for a moment about asking, demanding to know what this is — Youngjo is right there, why  _ him? _

_ If they wanted to stop moving, they could easily leave him behind. _

Seoho tentatively slings his arm around Geonhak’s shoulders. Something tender and soft inside him cracks and bruises at the way Geonhak slumps and curls in closer.

Another night, another bar, another promised night of hedonism and swimming in a sea of anonymity save for the three of them.

Youngjo insists on doing them up properly for once, laying out his haul of cheap drugstore makeup on the table. He does his own makeup first in the bathroom mirror, glitter on his eyelids and brushed onto his cheeks, a dark stain on his lips that makes their curve all the more feline, followed by gloss that makes them shine in the low light. Geonhak can’t stop staring.

Seoho goes next, sitting in the armchair that seems to follow them from motel to motel — always the same color, always the same scratchy fabric. Geonhak watches cross-legged from the bed, rapt.

Youngjo brushes shimmering powder on Seoho’s eyelids, creating a shadowy effect that accentuates their foxlike slant. He’s good at this, though Geonhak supposes that it makes sense, given his line of work. He holds his breath, watching the way Youngjo touches Seoho so delicately, so gently. Knowing how those fingers feel on his own skin, wondering how Youngjo might be different if they were to —

“Geonhak?” Youngjo’s smiling, like it’s not the first time he’s said Geonhak’s name. Geonhak flushes on the tips of his ears and goes to take Seoho’s place in the chair. He closes his eyes immediately before Youngjo can tell him. Youngjo hums a pleased noise.

“Good boy,” he says, quietly, and even that small thing has Geonhak shivering. He just barely catches a low noise from his left —  _ Seoho. _

Youngjo doesn’t spend much time on Geonhak’s eyelids, doing something that feels simple. Then, a wide brush on the lines of his cheekbones, spreading a powder that smells faintly sweet.

Last, his lips. Geonhak inhales shakily as Youngjo taps on his bottom lip to coax them open slightly. He waits for a long moment, anticipating sticky gloss or the chemical scent of lipstick — he doesn’t expect the quick, warm press of Youngjo’s lips against his for a long moment. Before he can kiss back, Youngjo’s pulling away.

“Yeah,” Youngjo says, “that’s pretty.” Geonhak presses his lips together, feeling the sticky pull of the gloss that’s transferred.

Youngjo takes hold of Geonhak’s chin with sure fingers, turning him to look at Seoho. The other man watches from the bed, pupils blown wide and undisguised lust only accentuated by his makeup.

“Isn’t he pretty?” Youngjo asks, sly smile apparent in his voice. Geonhak watches Seoho swallow.

“Yeah,” he replies, hand clenching in the fabric of his pants. “You’re so pretty, Geonhakkie.”

It’s like they’ve been dragging a rubber band all the way from the city and it’s finally, finally snapped.

Geonhak breaks free of Youngjo’s hold, surging out of the chair and over to Seoho in two long strides. Seoho catches his momentum, draws the kinetic energy into his own body and transforms it into heat and spark. Geonhak’s lips are sticky with gloss, a little chapped underneath once Seoho’s licked it off, and  _ perfect. _

The bed dips behind him, Youngjo’s hands around his waist, Youngjo’s lips on the back of his neck, and Seoho’s taken with the overwhelming desire to consume them both, to cut them up into little pieces and hide them away like he hides their money and car keys and valuables, precious and safe and untouchable.

Seoho discovers that Youngjo smiles into his kisses like he's hiding a secret; that Geonhak just wants to be told that he's doing well, doing so good, making them feel good; that when they're together, time slows to a syrupy thickness. Seoho watches, rapt, as Youngjo opens himself up on his fingers and rides Geonhak, undisguised pleasure on his pretty face.

"Kiss me," he breathes, beckoning Seoho to him, catching his lips with a pleased moan as he rolls his hips down on Geonhak. Seoho never wants to stop kissing him, either of them, in love with the way they move together and the way they fall apart.

After, curled like commas with Geonhak between them, Seoho knows for certain that it doesn't matter where they're headed. With Youngjo's hand on his hip and Geonhak's breath warm and gentle on Seoho's collarbone, he knows that this was their spark reaching the end of its fuse, and when it's done? Nothing can stop them.

No secrets between them now, caution thrown to the wind as it whips through their hair. Young and wild and free, they're full of the kind of magic that others only  _ dream  _ of.

Geonhak yells out the sunroof of their third stolen car, screams to the sky just because he can, because the universe should hear his voice. Youngjo laughs and laughs, twisted in the passenger seat to watch him with a possessive kind of love in his eyes, wrapped in a siren-red leather jacket he'd found in a consignment shop two towns back, sunglasses perched on his head.

Seoho kicks the accelerator, floors it across the empty highway, nothing but potential ahead of them.

Like all things, nothing wild and free and magnesium-bright can last forever.

It's nothing that any of them have done besides growing generally reckless. Perhaps if they had really started over, found an actual city and made new names for themselves and really  _ worked  _ at it, they might have made it out.

But then, where’s the  _ adventure? _

It ends like this:

Sirens blaring behind them, red and blue in the rearview, racing down the streets going a hundred, laughing because they always knew they would end up here. Geonhak yells out the windows, inaudible over the rush of wind and piercing sirens. Youngjo has a vice-grip on Seoho's leg, though it's not fear in his eyes as he stares ahead.

The police stop them on a bridge — nowhere to go but quietly, or down. There's really only one answer to that — none of them are well-suited for jail.

Teetering on the edge, hand in sweaty, lovable hand, they laugh and laugh.

"I have a good feeling about this," Seoho says. Youngjo's eyes gleam. Geonhak shoots them both a tight-lipped grin.

One, two, three...

And at the bottom? Another car, another highway. No questions asked:

They drive.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments make my day <3
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/dopaminekeeper) if ur 18+!!!


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